Wedding Night: A Novel

4

LOTTIE

The first thing to say is that I look fabulous.

The second thing is, I am not going to sleep with him.

No. No, sirree. No, I am not.

Even though I’ve been thinking about it all day. Even though I’ve been gently fizzing just at the memory. Him. How it was. How we were. I feel surreal and a bit light-headed. I can’t believe I’m going to see him. After all this time. Ben. I mean, Ben.

Hearing his voice was like some sort of time-travel trigger. At once I was sitting opposite him at that rickety little table we used to commandeer in the evening. Olive trees all around. My bare feet resting in his lap. A can of ice-cold Sprite. I’d forgotten about my Sprite addiction till that very instant.

Since then, memories and images have been resurfacing all day, some vague and some fully composed. His eyes. His scent. He was always so intense. That’s what I remember most. His intensity. He made me feel as though we were starring in our own movie, as though nothing mattered except him and me and now. It was all about sensation. The sensation of him. Of sun and sweat. Sea and sand. Skin and skin. Everything was hot and heightened and … incredible.

And this, fifteen years later, this is—well. Bizarre. I glance at my watch and feel a little shiver of anticipation. Enough loitering in shop entrances. Time to go.

We’re meeting at a new fish restaurant in Clerkenwell which has had good reviews. Apparently Ben works nearby, doing something or other—I didn’t ask, which was stupid, so I had to resort to a hasty Google when I finally got back to the office. I couldn’t track him down on Facebook, but there was some website about a paper company, which apparently he’s a director of. I’m kind of surprised—he wanted to be an actor when we were together, but I guess it didn’t work out. Or maybe he changed his mind. We didn’t talk too much about careers or jobs back then. We were pretty much just interested in sex and how we were going to change the world.

I do remember lots of late-night discussions on Brecht, who he was reading, and Chekhov, who I was reading. And global warming. And philanthropy. And politics. And euthanasia. We were a bit sixth-form debate-y, now that I look back. A bit earnest. But, then, fair enough. We’d only just left the sixth form.

I approach the restaurant, teetering a bit on my new high heels, feeling my hair bounce around my shoulders and admiring my immaculate manicure. As soon as Jo and her friends heard I was going on a date with an ex-boyfriend, they launched into a whole new level of activity. They did my nails. They dyed my brows. They even offered me a bikini wax.

Of course, I didn’t need that. I’d already been to the salon three days ago, to get prepared for hot, joyous, post-proposal sex with Richard, much good it did me. Total waste of money.

I feel a painful, humiliated pang. I should invoice him for the salon bill. I should send it to him in San Francisco, together with a dignified letter saying simply, Dear Richard. When you get this letter—

No. Stop, Lottie. Do not think about Richard. Do not compose a dignified letter. Move on. Move on, move on.

I grip my clutch bag more tightly, willing strength into myself. Everything is meant. It all has a pattern. One minute I’m at my lowest ebb—the next, Ben is contacting me. It’s kismet. It’s fate.

Although I am not going to sleep with him.

No. I’m not.

As I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I whip out my handbag mirror and check my reflection one last time. Bloody hell. I keep forgetting how amazing I look. My skin looks radiant. I have stunning new cheekbones, which Jo somehow invented with blusher and highlighter. My lips look fresh and luscious. To sum up: I’m gorgeous.

It’s the opposite of that nightmare scenario where you bump into your ex-boyfriend, wearing only pajamas and a hangover. It’s the dream scenario. I’ve never looked better in my life, and I’m fairly sure I never will again, not unless I hire ten makeup artists. This is my pinnacle, looks-wise.

With a sudden little burst of confidence, I push open the restaurant door, to be greeted by a warm, inviting smell of garlic and seafood. There are leather booths and a massive chandelier and the right kind of hubbub. Not show-offy and obnoxious but civilized and friendly. A mixologist is shaking a cocktail at the bar and I have an instant, Pavlovian desire for a mojito.

I’m not going to get drunk, I hastily resolve. I’m not going to sleep with him and I’m not going to get drunk.

The maître d’ is approaching me. Here goes.

“I’m here to meet a … a friend. He reserved a table. Benedict Parr?”

“Of course.” The maître d’ leads me a winding route through the restaurant, past about ten tables at which possible men are sitting with their faces averted. Each time, my stomach heaves with apprehension. Is that him? Is that him? Please not that one—

Oh God! I almost squeak. Here he is, rising from his chair. Stay cool. Smile. This is so, so, so surreal.

My eyes are running over him, registering details at top speed, as though I’m in the Assess Your Ex Olympics. Slightly odd patterned shirt; what’s that about? He’s taller than I remember. Thinner. His face is definitely thinner, and his dark wavy hair is short now. You’d never know that he once had Greek-god locks. There’s a hole in his ear where his earring used to be.

“Well … hi there,” I greet him.

I’m satisfied at the way I sound so understated. Especially since a bubble of excitement is growing inside me now that I’ve had a proper view. Look at him! He’s gorgeous! Just like he always was, but better. More grown-up. Less gawky.

He leans in for a kiss. A grown-up, civilized double kiss. Then he draws back and surveys me.

“Lottie. You look … incredible.”

“You look pretty good yourself.”

“You haven’t aged a day!”

“Same goes!”

We’re beaming at each other in a kind of amazed joy, like someone who’s won a raffle and come up to collect a dodgy box of chocolates as a prize and found it’s actually a thousand pounds in cash. We can’t believe our luck.

I mean, let’s face it, a lot can change in a man’s twenties. Ben could have turned up looking like anything. He could have been bald. He could have been paunchy and stooped. He could have developed some kind of irritating tic.

And he’s probably looking at me, thinking, Thank God she hasn’t had a trout pout put in/gone gray/gained sixty pounds.

“So.” He gestures charmingly at my chair and I sit down. “How have the last fifteen years been?”

“Fine, thanks.” I laugh. “You?”

“Can’t complain.” He meets my eye with the same mischievous grin he always had. “OK, that’s the catch-up done. You want a drink? Don’t tell me you’re teetotal now.”

“Are you kidding?” I open the cocktail menu, feeling a sizzle of anticipation. This is going to be a great evening. I already know it. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”

Two hours later I’m buzzing all over. I’m exhilarated. I feel like a sportsman in the zone. I feel like a convert who’s found religion. This is it. This is it. Ben and I are amazing together.

OK, so I haven’t stuck to my resolution regarding alcohol. But that was a ridiculous, shortsighted, stupid resolution. Dinner with an ex-boyfriend is potentially quite a tense, sticky situation. This could have been awkward. As it is, with a few cocktails down me, I’m having the best evening of my life.

What’s amazing is how connected Ben and I are. It’s as though we’ve picked up exactly where we left off, as if the last decade and a half never happened. We’re eighteen again. We’re young and big-eyed. Sharing wild ideas and silly jokes and wanting to explore everything the world has to offer. Ben immediately started telling me about a play he’d seen the week before, and I countered with an art exhibition in Paris (I didn’t mention that Richard took me), and our conversation has been flying since then. There’s so much to say. There are so many memories.

We haven’t done the tedious list of who-what-when. We haven’t exchanged job details, previous relationships, any of that boring crap. It’s so refreshing not to hear the words “So, what do you do?” or “Is your flat a conversion or purpose built?” or “Do you get a pension?” It’s so liberating.

I know he’s single. He knows I’m single. That’s the only update we needed.

Ben has drunk quite a lot more than I have. He also remembers much more than I do about our time in Greece. He keeps sparking old memories which I’d buried. I’d forgotten about the poker tournament. I’d forgotten about that fishing boat sinking. I’d forgotten about the night we played table tennis with those two Australian guys. But the moment Ben reminds me, there it all is in my head again, in a vivid flash.

“Guy and …” I’m crinkling up my nose, trying to remember. “Guy and … what was his name … oh yes, Bill!”

“Bill!” Ben chuckles and high-fives me. “Of course. Big Bill.”

I can’t believe I haven’t given Big Bill a thought, all these years. He was like a bear. He used to sit in the corner of the terrace, drinking beers and sunning himself. He had more piercings than I’d ever seen in my life. Apparently he’d done them all himself, with a needle. He had a really cool girlfriend called Pinky, and we all watched and cheered while he pierced her navel.

“The calamari.” I close my eyes briefly. “I’ve never had calamari like that in my life.”

“And the sunsets,” chimes in Ben. “Remember the sunsets?”

“I’ll never forget.”

“And Arthur.” He grins reminiscently. “What a character.”

Arthur was the guest house owner. We all worshipped him and hung on his every word. He was the most mellow guy I’ve ever met, fiftyish or maybe older, who’d done everything from attending Harvard to founding his own company and going bust to sailing round the world and ending up on Ikonos, where he married a local girl. He would sit every night in the olive grove, getting gently stoned and telling people about the time he had lunch with Bill Clinton and turned down his job offer. He’d had so many adventures. He was so wise. I can remember getting drunk one night and weeping on his shoulder and him stroking me and saying some really amazing stuff. (I can’t remember exactly what now—but it was amazing.)

“Remember the steps?”

“The steps!” I groan. “How did we do it?”

The guest house was set on top of a cliff. To get down to or up from the beach, it was 113 steps, set into the cliff. We used to spring up and down them several times a day. No wonder I was so thin.

“Remember Sarah? Whatever happened to her?”

“Sarah? What did she look like?”

“Stunning. Amazing body. Silky skin.” He seems to inhale the memory. “She was Arthur’s daughter. You must remember her.”

“Oh right.” I’m not wild about hearing descriptions of other girls’ silky skin. “Not sure.”

“Maybe she went off traveling before you came.” He shrugs, moving on. “D’you remember those old videos of Dirk and Sally? How many times did we watch those?”

“Dirk and Sally!” I exclaim. “Oh my God!”

“Partners at the altar, partners on the block,” begins Ben, in that corny voice-over voice.

“Partners to the death!” I join in, doing the Dirk and Sally arm salute.

Ben and I watched every single Dirk and Sally episode about five thousand times, mostly because it was the only box set of videos at the guest house, and you had to have something on apart from Greek news while you were eating your breakfast in the mornings. It’s a 1970s detective show about a couple who meet while they’re at police school and decide to keep their marriage secret while fighting crime as partners. Nobody knows except one serial killer, who keeps threatening to expose them. It’s genius.

I have a sudden memory of sitting with Ben on that ancient sofa in the dining room, our tanned legs tangled up, both wearing espadrilles, eating toast, and watching Dirk and Sally while everyone else was out on the terrace.

“The episode where Sally is kidnapped by the neighbor,” I say. “That was the best.”

“No, when Dirk’s brother comes to live with them, and he’s become a chef for the Mafia, and Dirk keeps asking him where he learned to cook, and then the drugs are in the peach cobbler—”

“Oh my God, yes!”

We both pause a moment, lost in memories.

“No one I’ve ever met has seen Dirk and Sally,” says Ben. “Or even heard of it.”

“Me neither,” I agree, though the truth is, I’d pretty much forgotten about Dirk and Sally till he mentioned it just now.

“The cove.” His thoughts have moved restlessly on again.

“The cove. Oh my God.” I meet his eyes and it all comes flooding back. I’m almost transfixed again with hot, teenage-level desire. The secret cove was where we first got it together. And then again. Every day. It was a little tiny sheltered stretch of sand round the bay. You had to get there by boat, and no one else could be bothered. Ben would sail us there, saying nothing but occasionally flicking me a meaningful look. And I would sit there, my feet up on the side of the boat, almost panting with anticipation.

I look at him now, across the table. Ben’s thinking exactly the same as me, I can tell. He’s back there. He looks as intoxicated as I feel.

“The way you nursed me through the flu,” he says slowly. “I’ve never forgotten that.”

The flu? I don’t remember nursing him through the flu. But, then, my memories are so fuzzy. I’m sure I did, if he says I did. And I don’t want to interrupt or contradict him, because it would ruin the mood. So I just nod gently.

“You cradled my head. You sang me to sleep. I was delirious, but I could hear your voice, getting me through the night.” He takes another swig of wine. “You were my guardian angel, Lottie. Maybe I went off the rails because I didn’t have you in my life.”

His guardian angel. That’s so romantic. I’m quite interested to know how he went off the rails—but to ask him would spoil the moment. And who cares? Everyone goes off the rails. Then they come back on the rails. It doesn’t matter what they were doing meanwhile.

Now he glances at my left hand. “How come you haven’t been snapped up, anyway?”

“Haven’t met the right guy,” I say casually.

“A gorgeous girl like you? Should be fighting them off.”

“Well, maybe I have been.” I laugh, but for the first time this evening my composure slips a little. And all of a sudden—I can’t help it—I have a flashback to the first time I met Richard. It was at the opera, which is weird, because I never go to the opera normally, and nor does he. We were both there as a favor to friends. It was a charity gala of Tosca and he was in black tie, looking tall and distinguished, and the moment I saw him with some blond woman on his arm I felt a pang of jealousy. I hadn’t even met him and I was thinking, Lucky her. He was laughing and handing out champagne, and then he turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced,” and I nearly fell into his gorgeous dark eyes.

And that was it. It felt magical. He wasn’t with the blond woman after all, and after the intermission he switched seats to be next to me. We went back to the opera on our first anniversary, and I thought we’d do it every year for the rest of our lives.

So much for that. So much for telling the story at the wedding reception and everybody saying, Ahh …

“Oh God.” Ben is peering at me. “I’m sorry. I’ve said something. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I smile hastily and blink. “Just … everything. You know. Life.”

“Exactly. Exactly.” He nods fervently as though I’ve solved some massive problem he was wrestling with. “Lotts, do you feel as fucked up by life as I do?”

“Yes.” I take a deep slug of wine. “Yes, I do. Even more so.”

“When I was eighteen, when we were out there, I knew what I was about.” Ben is staring moodily into space. “I had clarity. But you start out in life and somehow it all gets … corroded. Corrupted. Everything closes in on you, you know what I mean? There’s no escape. There’s no way to say, ‘Just stop a fucking moment. Let me work out what I want.’ ”

“Totally.” I nod earnestly.

“That was the highest point of my life. Greece. You. The whole deal.” He looks gripped by the memory. “Just the two of us, together. Everything was simple. There was no shit. Is it the same for you? Was that the best time of your life?”

My mind does a hazy rewind over the last fifteen years. OK, there have been a few high points here and there, but in general I have to agree. We were eighteen. We were hot. We could drink all night with no hangover. When has life ever been that good?

I nod slowly. “Best time ever.”

“Why didn’t we stay together, Lottie? Why didn’t we keep in touch?”

“Edinburgh–Bath.” I shrug. “Bath–Edinburgh. Impossible geography.”

“I know. But that was a crap reason.” He looks angry. “We were idiots.”

We had the “impossible geography” conversation many, many times on the island. He was going to Edinburgh University. I was going to Bath. It was only a matter of time before it ended. There was no point trying to keep things going beyond the summer.

The days after the fire were weird, anyway. Everything started to fall apart. We were all billeted in different guest houses, all over the island. People’s parents swooped in. Some actually arrived on the next boat, with money and clothes and replacement passports. I remember seeing Pinky sitting disconsolately at the taverna with two very smart-looking parents. It felt like the party was over.

“Weren’t we planning to meet once in London?” It comes back to me in a flash. “But then you had to go to Normandy with your family.”

“That’s right.” He exhales sharply. “I should have bailed out on them. I should have switched to Bath.” His eyes suddenly focus on me. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Lottie. Sometimes I think, what an idiot I was to let you go. What a fucking stupid idiot.”

My stomach turns an almighty somersault and I almost choke on my wine. At the back of my mind, I was kind of hoping he might say something along these lines. But not so soon. His blue eyes are boring into me expectantly.

“Me too,” I say at last, and take a forkful of halibut.

“Don’t tell me you’ve ever had a relationship better than ours. Because I sure as hell haven’t.” Ben bangs the table with his fist. “Maybe we got our priorities screwed up. Maybe we should have said, Fuck university, we’re staying together. Who knows what might have happened? We were good together, Lottie. Maybe we’ve wasted the last fifteen years not being together. Don’t you ever think that?”

His speed is taking my breath away. I don’t quite know how to react, so I stuff some more halibut into my mouth.

“We might be married by now. We might have kids. My life might make sense.” He’s almost talking to himself, popping with a kind of suppressed emotion I can’t read.

“Do you want kids?” I say before I can stop myself.

I can’t believe I just asked a guy on a first date if he wants kids. I should be struck off. Except … it’s not a first date. If it’s anything, it’s a zillionth date. And he mentioned them first. And, anyway, it’s not a date at all. So.

“Yes, I want kids.” His intent gaze lands on me again. “I’m ready for a family, prams, going to the park, all that shit.”

“Me too.” I feel tears spring to my eyes. “I’m ready for a family too.”

Oh God. Richard has popped into my head yet again. I didn’t want him to, but he has. I’m remembering that fantasy I used to have of Richard and me making a tree house for our twins called Arthur and Edie. Almost savagely, I open my evening bag and reach for a tissue. Crying was not the plan. Thinking about Richard was not the plan.

Thankfully, Ben doesn’t seem to have noticed. He refills my glass, then his own, with wine. We’ve already finished the bottle, I notice with a slight shock. How did we manage that?

“Remember the pact?” His voice takes me by surprise.

No way.

Adrenaline has flooded my body. My lungs are squeezed so tight, I can’t breathe. I didn’t think he’d remember the pact. I wasn’t going to bring it up. It was a teeny, tiny, jokey promise we made once. It was nothing. It was ridiculous.

“Should we exercise it?” He’s looking at me frankly. I think he might be half serious. Or serious. No. He can’t be serious—

“Bit late,” I manage, my throat tight. “We said if we were unmarried at thirty. I’m thirty-three.”

“Better late than never.” I feel a fresh jolt. His foot has found mine under the table and he’s edging off my shoe. “My flat’s nearby,” he murmurs. Now his hand is taking mine. My skin starts tingling all over. It’s like muscle memory. Sex memory. I know where we’re heading.

But … but … is that where I want to head? What’s going on here? Think, Lottie.

“Would you care to see the dessert menu?” The waiter’s voice snaps me out of my trance. My head jerks up and I take the chance to whip my hand away from Ben.

“Er … thanks.”

I scan the dessert menu, my cheeks beating with blood, my mind circling furiously. What do I do now? What? What?

A little voice is telling me to rein in. I’m playing this wrong. I’m making a mistake. I have a terrible sense of déjà vu, of things following the same old pattern.

All my long-term relationships have started like this. Hand-holding over a table. Pulses racing all over my body. Nice underwear, and everything waxed, and hot, inventive, fabulous sex. (Or terrible sex, that one time with the doctor bloke. Yikes. You’d think a medic would be a bit more up on the way a body works. But I ditched him fairly swiftly.)

The point is: the beginning is never the problem. It’s afterward.

I’m feeling a strange conviction I’ve never felt before. I need to change everything I’m doing. Break the pattern. But how? What?

Ben has taken my hand again and is kissing the inside of my wrist, but I ignore him. I want to marshal my thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” He looks up, his mouth against my skin. “You’re tense. Lottie, don’t fight it. This is meant to happen. You and me. You know it is.”

His eyes have that languorous, drunken sexy look I remember. I’m already feeling turned on. I could surrender and have a sizzling, delicious night to cheer myself up. I deserve it, after all.

But what if there’s a chance of more than a great night? How should I play this? What do I do?

It would really help if my head wasn’t spinning.

“Ben, you have to understand.” I pull my arm away again. “It’s not like when we were eighteen, OK? I don’t just want a shag. I want … other things. I want marriage. I want commitment. I want to plan a life together with someone. Kids, the whole lot.”

“So do I!” he says impatiently. “Weren’t you listening? It should have been you all along.” His eyes are burning into mine. “Lottie. I never stopped loving you.”

Oh my God, he loves me. I feel a rush of tears again. And, looking at him, it comes to me that I never stopped loving him either. Maybe I just didn’t realize it, because it was a kind of low-level, steady love. Like a background hum. And now it’s swelling back up into full-blown passion.

“Nor did I,” I say, my voice trembling with sudden conviction. “I’ve loved you for fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years.” He’s clinging to my hand. “We were insane to let each other go.”

The romance of it all is overwhelming me. Talk about a story to tell at a wedding reception. Talk about oohs and aahs. We were apart for fifteen years, but then we found each other again.

“We have to make up for lost time.” He crushes my fingers to his mouth. “Darling Lottie. My love.” His words are like balm. The feel of his lips on my skin is almost unbearably delicious. For an instant I close my eyes. But, no. Alarm bells are ringing. I can’t bear this one to go wrong like all the others.

“Stop!” I whip my hand away. “Don’t! Ben, I know how this will play out, and I can’t bear it. Not again.”

“What are you talking about?” He stares at me, baffled. “All I did was kiss your fingers.”

His voice is a bit slurred. Kish your fingersh. But, then, so probably is mine.

I wait until the waiter has brushed away the crumbs from our table, then launch in again, my voice lowered and trembling.

“I’ve been here before. I know what happens. You kiss my fingers. I kiss your fingers. We have sex. It’s great. We have more sex. We’re besotted. We go on a mini-break to the Cotswolds. Maybe we buy a sofa together, or a bookshelf from Ikea. And then suddenly it’s two years later and we should be getting married … but somehow we don’t. We’ve gone off the boil. We argue and we break up. And it’s horrible.”

My throat is tight with misery at our fate. It’s so inevitable and it’s so sad.

Ben looks bewildered by the scenario I’ve painted.

“OK,” he says at last, eyeing me warily. “Well … what if we don’t go off the boil?”

“We do! It’s the law! It always happens!” I gaze at him, my eyes full of tears. “I’ve gone off the boil with too many guys. I know.”

“Even if we don’t buy a bookshelf from Ikea?”

I know he’s trying to be funny, but I’m serious. I’ve spent fifteen years of my life dating, I suddenly realize. Dating is not the solution to anything. Dating gave me Richard. Dating is the problem.

“There’s a good reason you went off the boil with those other guys.” Ben tries again. “They weren’t the right guys. But I am!”

“Who says you’re the right guy?”

“Because … because … Jesus! What will it take?” He thrusts his fingers through his hair, looking exasperated. “OK! You win. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Lottie, will you marry me?”

“Shut up.” I scowl. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I mean it. Will you marry me?”

“Funny.” I take a slug of wine.

“I mean it. Will you marry me?”

“Stop it.”

“Will you marry me?” Now he’s speaking more loudly. A couple at the next table look over and smile.

“Shh!” I say irritably. “It’s not funny.”

To my utter shock, he gets out of his seat, kneels down, and clasps his hands. I can see other diners turning to watch.

My heart is pounding. No way. No way.

“Charlotte Graveney,” he begins, swaying slightly. “I’ve spent fifteen years chasing pale imitations of you, and now I’m back here with the original I should never have let go. My life has been darkness without you and now I want to switch on the light. Will you do me the honor of marrying me? Please?”

A weird sensation is stealing over me. I feel as if I’m turning into cotton wool. He’s proposing. He’s actually proposing. For real.

“You’re drunk,” I parry.

“Not that drunk. Will you marry me?” he repeats.

“But I don’t know you anymore!” I give a half laugh. “I don’t know what you do for a living, I don’t know where you live, I don’t know what you want in life—”

“Paper supply. Shoreditch. To be as happy as I was when I was with you. To wake up every morning and shag your brains out. To make babies who have your eyes. Lottie, I know it’s been years, but it’s still me. It’s still Ben.” His eyes crinkle in the way they always did. “Will you marry me?”

I stare at him, breathing hard, my head ringing. But I can’t quite tell if it’s bells of joy or an alarm siren.

I mean, I did think there was a chance he was still interested in me. But this is beyond all my fantasies. He’s held a torch for me, all these years! He wants to get married! He wants kids! A noise is playing at the back of my mind. I think it could be violin music. Maybe this is it. MAYBE THIS IS IT! Richard wasn’t it; Ben is it!

I take a swig of water and try to fight a way through my swirling thoughts. Let’s be sensible. Let’s just think this through carefully. Did we ever argue? No. Was he good company? Yes. Do I fancy him? Hell, yeah. Is there anything else I need to know about a potential husband?

“Do you have any nipples pierced?” I ask with sudden foreboding. Pierced nipples really aren’t my thing.

“Not one.” He rips open his shirt in a theatrical gesture, scattering buttons, and I can’t help staring. Mmm. Brown. Taut. He’s as tasty as he ever was.

“All you need to do is say ‘Yes.’” Ben spreads his arms with a drunken emphasis. “All you need to do, Lottie, is say ‘Yes.’ We spend most of our lives messing things up because we think too much. Let’s not overthink this one. Fuck it, we’ve wasted enough time. We love each other. Let’s just jump.”

He’s right. We do love each other. And he wants to make babies who have my eyes. No one’s ever said anything so beautiful to me. Not even Richard.

My head is whirling. I’m trying to stay rational, but I’m losing my footing. Is this real? Is he just talking me into bed? Is this the most romantic moment of my life or am I an idiot?

“I … I think so,” I say at last.

“You think so?”

“Just … give me a moment.”

I grab my bag and head to the Ladies’; I have to think. Clearly. Or at least as clearly as I can, bearing in mind that the room is spinning and my face in the mirror looks like it has three eyes.

It could work. I’m sure it could work. But how can I make it work? How can I not fall into the same predictable pattern as all my other dead-end, fizzle-out relationships?

As I comb my hair, my mind starts ranging over other first dates with other boyfriends. Other beginnings. I’ve stood in so many Ladies’ rooms over the years, refreshing my lipstick, thinking, Is this The One? Each time I’ve felt equally hopeful, equally fizzy. So where did I go wrong? What can I do differently? What can I not do that I normally do?

Suddenly I recall that book I was looking at this morning. The Reverse Principle. Flip the arrow. Change direction. That sounds good. Yes. But how do I change direction? And now the words of that mad old woman in the Ladies’ yesterday are ringing in my head. What did she say again? Men are like jungle creatures. The minute they’ve found their kill, they eat it and fall asleep. Maybe she wasn’t so mad after all. Maybe she had something.

Abruptly, I stop combing my hair. In a flash of inspiration, it has come to me. The answer. The left-field solution. I, Lottie Graveney, am going to reverse the pattern. I’m going to do the opposite of what I’ve done with all previous boyfriends.

I meet my eyes in the mirror. I look a little wild, but, then, is that any surprise? If I was exhilarated before, I’m euphoric now. I feel like a scientist who’s discovered a new, game-changing subatomic particle. I’m right. I know I’m right. I’m right!

I stride back into the restaurant, staggering a little in my heels, and approach the table.

“No sex,” I say firmly.

“What?”

“Till we’re married. No sex.” I sit down. “Take it or leave it.”

“What?” Ben looks flabbergasted, but I just smile serenely back. I’m brilliant. If he really loves me, he’ll wait. And there’ll be no chance of anyone going off the boil. None. And the best part is, we’ll have the hottest honeymoon ever. We’ll be connected and united and blissed out. Exactly like honeymooners should be.

His shirt is still hanging open. I picture him naked, in some gorgeous hotel bed, surrounded by rose petals. Just the idea makes me quiver.

“You’re kidding.” His face has completely dropped. “Why?”

“Because I want things to be different. I want to break the mold. I love you, yes? You love me? We want to make a life together?”

“For fifteen years I’ve loved you.” He shakes his head. “Fifteen fucking years, we wasted, Lottie—”

I can tell he’s going to start another drunken speech.

“So.” I cut him off. “We wait a bit longer. And then we can have a wedding night. A proper wedding night. Think about it. We’ll both be gagging for it by then. Absolutely … gagging.” I reach under the table with my bare foot and slowly walk it up the inside of his leg. His face is transfixed. Never fails, this one.

For a moment, neither of us talks. Let’s say we’re communicating in a different way.

“Actually …,” he says at last, his voice thick, “that could be fun.”

“A lot of fun.” Casually, I unbutton my top a couple of notches and lean forward, giving him maximum view of my uplift bra. My other foot is moving up to his crotch now. Ben seems unable to speak. “Remember the night of your birthday?” I say huskily. “On the beach? We could reprise that.”

If we reprise that, I am wearing protective knee guards. I had scabs for a week. As if he’s reading my mind, Ben closes his eyes and moans faintly. “You’re killing me.”

“It’ll be amazing.” I have a sudden memory of us as teenagers, lying entwined in my room at the guest house, lit only by the flickering of all my scented candles.

“Do you know how hot you are? Do you realize how badly I want to get under this table now?” He grabs my hand and starts nibbling at the tip of my thumb. But this time I don’t move it away. My entire body seems wired to the feel of his lips and teeth on my skin. I want them everywhere. I remember this. I remember him. How could I have forgotten?

“Wedding night, huh?” he says at last. My toes are still doing their stuff, and there’s pretty firm evidence that he’s enjoying it. All still in working order, then.

“Wedding night.” I nod.

“You realize I’ll die of frustration meanwhile?”

“Me too. And then I’ll explode.” He takes my thumb right inside his mouth, and I gasp inwardly as the sensation rockets through my body. We need to leave soon or the waiter will be telling us to get a room.

And when Richard hears about this—

No. Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with Richard. It’s fate. It’s part of a bigger picture. A huge, sweeping romantic story starring Ben and me, with Richard only a bit part along the way.

I know I’m drunk. I know this is rushed. But it feels so right. And if there’s still a soreness deep in my heart, then this is like some magical soothing lotion. I was meant to break up with Richard. I was meant to be miserable. The karma for my suffering is that now I get a wedding ring and the hottest sex of my life.

I feel like my raffle prize wasn’t a thousand pounds. It was a million pounds.

Ben’s eyes are glazed. I’m breathing more and more heavily. I’m not sure I can stand this.

“When shall we get married?” I murmur.

“Soon.” He sounds desperate. “Really, really soon.”